


Nothing compares to you

by nieded



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Awkward Conversations, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Father Anthony - Freeform, Frottage, Happy Ending, I have been a reasonable person in my life, Inexperienced Crowley, M/M, Oral Sex, Priest AU, Romantic Tension, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Yeah I said it FATHER ANTHONY, blasphemous sex, coming in clothes, done some bad things but good too, made mistakes, this, this is what sends me to hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29316498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nieded/pseuds/nieded
Summary: Written for the GO VDay Exchange 2021 for@ladybugcaptoron tumblr.In which Aziraphale, a lonely bookseller, falls in love with the interim priest at St Edmund's.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 130





	Nothing compares to you

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Aziraphale twists his mother's ring where it rests on his pinky finger while sitting on the hard confessional bench. It’s just a simple gold-plated band, innocuous really, and he’s worn it into a smooth polish from worrying it over the years. 

There’s a beat of silence, the sound of shuffling on the other side of the window screen. “Well, what’d you do?” the priest asks.

When he doesn’t recognise the voice, Aziraphale frowns, affronted at the priest’s tone. He tries to peer through the slats. “Um, sorry, but who are you?” 

There’s a grunt and then an apology. “Sorry, sorry,” the man says. “Father Francis left late last night. His mother’s taken ill. I’m just here in the interim.” He has a funny cadence to his voice, lacking the authority and wisdom of any of the other priests Aziraphale’s met. He sounds rather young. “I’m Father Anthony.”

“Ah, I’m Aziraphale.”

“Like… Israfel?” Father Anthony asks, his voice lilting upwards with a curiosity.

“Sorry, who?” 

“Ehh." Through the screened window, Aziraphale can see him wave his hands around, head tilted back like he’s looking up at the ceiling. “He’s an angel from the Quran.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever read the Quran. You know, being Catholic and all.” He frowns. This might be the strangest confession he’s sat through.

“Well, how are you supposed to know what it’s all about if you only read the One book? How do you know if the Christian God is the true Almighty if you don’t ask around?” 

Father Anthony turns to look at him through the screen, just a shadow, but somehow Aziraphale feels it. He shifts in his seat. It sounds just a bit blasphemous, and he rubs his sweating hands on his pant leg. “I suppose you have a point.” 

“So, what did you do?”

Aziraphale’s breath hitches, and he goes back to fidgeting with his ring. He doesn’t even know where to start. “I may have gotten into a bit of legal trouble. Libel. Slander.” He can _hear_ Father Anthony’s eyebrows raise. “It’s just that I have this competitor. I own a little bookshop around the corner here in Soho, and next door is another proprietor of a--ah--novelty bookstore who wants to buy me out. So I wrote in to the local paper complaining, and I may have exaggerated some of his lesser qualities. A bit. Now people are boycotting his store, and it’s put a dent in his business.”

“Did you try and reconcile by other means first?”

“Well, yes, of course! I politely let him know I wasn’t interested in selling. Then I sent him a cease and desist letter. Finally, I lost it a bit when a rumour started going around that I was running unsavoury practices in the back of the shop, so I did a rather un-Christian thing and retaliated in kind.” 

“So it sounds to me like you tried your best to resolve it appropriately and that failed.”

“Yes.”

“And whosit--”

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale interjects.

There’s a pause followed by an exasperated sigh and a bit of stifled laughter. “I’m sorry. _Gabriel?_ I didn’t realise Soho was full of angels.” Father Anthony clears his throat. “So _Gabriel_ ,” he says, “has continued to disrespect you and pushed you to your limits.” 

Aziraphale shifts in his seat again. He hadn’t really thought about it that way. “I suppose so,” he admits. “Though I should have turned my cheek.” 

“Look, Jesus says to turn the other cheek, but the Lord also says, ‘thou shalt not covet.’ One of you committed a cardinal sin, and it wasn’t you.” 

He sits there for a moment, perplexed and a little relieved at Father Anthony’s words. 

“People want the Bible to be cut and dry, but I’ve always believed that there are degrees and conditions for every situation. Jesus also said, ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself,’ but that does involve loving yourself first, and you can’t do that if you let some arsehole next door walk all over you.” Father Anthony pauses and lets Aziraphale soak that in. “Say, what kind of bookshop does this Gabriel run?”

“Oh! Ah--” Aziraphale blushes. “It’s, um, _Angel’s Paradise Erotic Fiction and Novelties_.” 

There’s another burst of laughter, louder this time. Aziraphale imagines the other parishioners outside the confessional staring while they wait their turn. “Thank you, Israfel, for the laugh this morning.”

“It’s Aziraphale.”

There’s a pause before that lilting tenor speaks through the screen. “Angel, then.”

  
  


Aziraphale peers out the dusty windows of his shop. It’s been a slow day with only a few customers. In all honesty, that’s the way he likes it, but it doesn’t pay the bills. He _is_ furious with Gabriel and his insistent badgering, but he doesn’t know how much longer he can afford to stay open, and the bastard has offered him a more than reasonable price for the shop. 

He closes up and dons his coat, wrapping a scarf around his neck. He ends up walking past _Angel’s Paradise_ , filled with at least a dozen customers. He looks at the tacky heart window-clings and supposed it is that time of the year with Valentine’s Day around the corner. Gabriel glares at him from behind the register, and Aziraphale thinks of Father Anthony who was firmly on his side in the whole matter. He gives Gabriel a cheery wave.

What he needs is a good meal, something hearty and on the greasy side. He keeps saying he’ll start his diet any day now, but New Years has already passed, and it’s cold out, and maybe it would be better to wait for summer when the produce is fresh and crisp. 

Decided, he walks to the Braeburn Tavern, the little pub around the corner that is Soho’s most-British of eateries with its footie playing on the TV and its shepherd’s pie that is neither gourmet nor deconstructed nor any of those other fancy things in which the young adults indulge. It’s hearty and filling, and sometimes the shouting patrons and the smell of spilt beer slows the bleeding of his lonely heart. 

He waves at Peter, the bartender, as the door chimes and slides onto his usual stool. “The usual fish ‘n’ chippy?” Peter asks.

“With a pale ale on tap and extra vinegar on the side, if you please.” 

“Don’t know how you drink those things,” the man to his left says, interrupting uninvited.

Aziraphale turns to look at him. The neighbouring patron sits with one foot on the rung of his stool, the other extended in one long stretch to the ground. Aziraphale catches himself staring and drags his eye upwards, taking in the red hair and a pair of sunglasses on his head, fingers wrapped around a stout glass filled to the brim with coffee-dark beer with a frothy white head. 

“Can’t stand a dark beer,” Aziraphale says, nodding to the stranger’s glass. 

The man tsks. He has a toothy grin, wide with pointed teeth, dressed head-to-toe in all black. “I can see that,” he says, gesturing at him. “It goes against your aesthetic.”

Aziraphale looks down at himself, his beige trousers and cream-coloured sweater vest, a stark contrast to the rather stunning man beside him. “Well, I see a nice stout suits you perfectly.”

“Cheers,” the stranger says, saluting with his glass.

The bartender sets down the pale ale on top of a flimsy cardboard coaster. “Here you are, Aziraphale.” 

The man next to him sputters mid-sip and coughs on his drink. “Aziraphale, eh?” he says, clearing his throat. Aziraphale prepares himself for some rude remark, having heard enough said about his unusual name over the years. Then he gapes when the stranger points at him and smiles. “Angel.” 

Aziraphale stares at him for a long moment, wide-eyed. Then it clicks. “Oh. _Oh._ Father Anthony.” He thought that voice was familiar.

The priest pulls a face. “Crowley,” he corrects. “I’m Anthony Crowley. When you call me Father in the middle of a pub, it feels, ah--” he gestures with a vague wave of his hand, then leans over conspiratorially, “a bit naughty, you know?” 

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to sputter, and he laughs, titters really, hiding his smile behind his hand. “Crowley, then.” He pauses to study him now that he can put a face to the name. Without his clerical collar, the black dress shirt, black slim-cut trousers, and snakeskin boots make him look slick and a bit dangerous. Aziraphale swallows.

“How are things with your neighbour?” Crowley asks, breaking him from his thoughts. When Aziraphale doesn’t respond right away, he backpedals. “Nng, I mean, sorry. Inappropriate of me to ask about something you told me in confidentiality.”

“Oh! No, really it’s fine.” He waves his hand. “Things are the way they are, I suppose. Nothing’s changed, although he’s stopped bothering me for now.” He doesn’t mention that his own shop is failing while Gabriel’s is booming next door. “He’s running some type of Valentine’s Day special.” 

Crowley lifts his eyebrows and presses his lips together like he’s holding back laughter. Aziraphale mentally slaps himself for mentioning a _sale_ at a _sex shop_ to a _priest_. 

“Do you have anyone special you’ll be celebrating with then?” Crowley asks.

“Oh no, not me.” 

“Why not you?”

Aziraphale sniffs and takes a hefty swig of his beer. This is not the conversation he wants to be having with a priest, let alone one he finds overwhelmingly attractive. At least he knows better than to ask him if he’s seeing anyone, what with the vow of celibacy. “I’m not good at dating,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s better left for everybody else.” 

Crowley gives him a look, maybe a bit pitying, and it sets Aziraphale’s teeth on edge. “Are you from London?” he asks, changing the subject.

“No, actually. I was born in Scotland but grew up in Manchester. I’m not really too familiar with Soho, to be honest.” That would explain the accent, Aziraphale thinks, some rounded shape of _northern_ with no real distinctive features. “Have any recommendations on what I should do?” 

“It sounds rather quaint, I’m afraid, but I enjoy a good walk around St James Park.”

“I could go for a walk.” Crowley tilts his head back and downs the rest of his stout in one go, the flex of his throat hypnotising as he swallows. He nods towards the street. “Show me around?” 

Suddenly the comfort of fish and chips pales in comparison to this long stretch of a man, his crooked smile and deep laugh lines. Aziraphale takes one last long swig of his beer and throws a few notes on the bar. “Peter, wrap it for me, will you? I’ll come back for it later.” Then they’re out the door. 

  
  


They wander the park along the Serpentine for a good long stretch. Father Anthony--Crowley, Aziraphale reminds himself--teases out of him that he’s a bit of a book collector and wine connoisseur. “Well, my collection of books is my shop. That’s the problem, really.” 

Crowley shoves his hands deep in his pockets and turns to look at him. “Problem?”

“I’m not very good at selling anything when they’re all things I want to keep.” 

This earns him a laugh. Aziraphale doesn’t know the last time he’s made someone laugh so loudly or so often. Crowley’s face is open, thin and expressive. “And the wine? Would you be willing to share that?”

“For the right person, I suppose.” It feels a little too much like flirting, not that Aziraphale has had a lot of practice. He doesn’t want the evening to end even though he has no expectations of it going anywhere. It’s been too long since he’s had company over, even just a friend. “Care to join me?”

Crowley’s face softens. “Love to.” His eyes are kind and warm. Genuine, like he means it when he says ‘yes.’ 

“All right then,” Aziraphale says, bundling himself into his jacket as they make their way back across the park. “I have my books and wine. What’s your thing?”

“Mmm?”

“You know, your thing.” 

Crowley makes a face followed by a long string of gibberish. “Ehh, nng, hmm I dunno. Don’t have one. I’m a priest. I’m not allowed to hoard.”

“I don’t _hoard_ ,” Aziraphale says, offended. 

He softens when Crowley bumps their shoulders together and gives him a smile. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

He changes tactics. “All right. If you could have anything or collect anything, what would you want? What’s your…”

“Deadly sin?”

“Yes! Precisely!”

They walk in silence for a moment, Crowley’s gaze off in the clouds. Finally, he makes a small ‘aha!’ sound. “I’ve got it. Cars. Classic cars.” 

Aziraphale appraises him for a moment before nodding. He can see it. There’s something sort of cool about him, the way he walks, the way he dresses, even within the confines of his profession. “I could see that, I think. I know nothing about cars.”

“I was obsessed with America when I was seventeen.”

“That’s embarrassing.”

Crowley concurs with a soft _mmhmm_ , pressing his lips together. He shoots Aziraphale a solemn look while they’re stopped at the crosswalk and says, “It’s probably, honestly, what drove me to take a vow.” 

“You dodged a bullet,” Aziraphale says, nodding in agreement. He smiles to himself, a fluttering light feeling gathering inside of him. It’s been a long time, he thinks, since he’s had a conversation with someone that has been so enjoyable. Father Anthony-- _Crowley--_ is pleasant company, funny and charming in an unconventional way. “Imagine what could have happened to you.”

Crowley sighs and there’s a wistful note to it, like savouring a nostalgic memory. “Just picture it. A huge sixth-gen, 1973 Thunderbird in black with a red interior, white walls on the wheels, the radio blaring to The Who with the top off, beer in the cupholder and a Playboy magazine in the glove box--”

Aziraphale sputters and starts laughing. “What?”

“Well, I don’t know. That’s what seventeen-year-old Tony thought he wanted. Cut me some slack.” Then he turns and shrugs. “When I was in Glasgow for a year, there was a little car club affiliated with the church, a bunch of stodgy old men who got dragged to mass by their wives. But they all pooled together and fixed up this beautiful 1933 Bentley and sold it for auction, donated half the proceeds for renovations for the church, and the other half paid for meals for all the kids in the congregation over the summer months. It was stellar.” He waves his hands around while he talks, his face lighting up. “I used to bum around Henry’s garage where they’d all get together and drink beer. It took them probably twice as long to restore the thing then it should have because they were drunk half the time.”

“It sounds lovely,” Aziraphale says with a wry smile, but it comes off sounding more sincere than he’d intended. 

“You know? It was. Too bad poverty is a virtue. I would have bought that baby in a heartbeat.” 

They pass Gabriel’s shop on the way, and Crowley pauses in the window, squinting against the reflections of the streetlights. He points to a book on display featuring an illustration of a man and a woman engaging in a rather flexible sexual position. He blinks for a moment. “I mean, can people even bend that way, do you think?” he asks. 

_We could find out_ , Aziraphale thinks, unbidden, before biting his tongue. “I wouldn’t know,” he says instead. “I’m not, uh, persuaded by the female form.” 

Crowley looks up at him and blinks for a moment, and Aziraphale has a moment of panic. Stupid, shit, bollocks. He’s a Catholic priest, of course. Aziraphale hadn’t taken him for the fire and brimstone type, but still. He looks down at his shoes, reaching to twist the ring on his pinky.

“I mean, I’ve been to Circ du Soleil. The ladies aren’t the only flexible ones.” Then he tilts his head in faux-thought. “I _think_ the anatomy’s different. It’s been a while.”

Aziraphale blinks and opens his mouth, shuts it, and furrows his brow. He gets stuck on the words _a while_ and wonders precisely what that means. Instead, he says, “Just what sort of priest are you?”

Crowley sniffs and wipes his hands on his trousers. He grins, but there’s a flicker of something else that passes across his face. “A bad one,” he says with a shrug. He shoves his hands in his pockets to fend off the cold, rocking on his feet, and Aziraphale is at once charmed. 

Aziraphale thinks about their conversation during confessional, how Crowley--Father Anthony, he reminds himself--took the time to listen to him, to unravel the complexities of Aziraphale’s guilt, to help him see reason instead of just absolving him and sending him on his way. “I disagree entirely,” he says, his voice soft. “You’re not to me.” He catches Crowley’s flush, all too alluring and innocent in turns. “Mine is next door if you still want a nightcap.” 

“Please.” 

Aziraphale leads him through the front of the bookshop and stops halfway to the stairs up to his little flat above. He turns back to find the priest standing with his mouth open, eyes gazing over the shelves and shelves of books, the split staircase lined with leather-bound texts, the gold-leaf lettering glittering in the dim shine of the security light. “Bit of a fire hazard, I know.”

“It’s fantastic.” Then with a long exhale, Crowley shakes his head in amazement. “Angel.”

Aziraphale swallows. It sounds loud in his ears, a rush of static in his head. God, he’s in trouble, he thinks, staring at this long stretch of man who has his head tilted back, gazing with wonder at the little space he’s eked out for himself, the only place that has felt like home. He wants to kiss him. “I live upstairs,” he says, gesturing with an awkward wave up the staircase. 

  
  


In the small flat above the shop, Aziraphale puts on a record and uncorks the wine. He rummages through the cupboards until he finds two mismatched wine glasses. They clink together as he sets them on the counter, and he startles, suddenly aware of how close they’re standing in the cramped galley kitchen. Their evening has turned from a jaunt through the park as new friends to something else, something fraught with tension so heavy he can feel it on the back of his tongue. He has to steady his hand to pour before passing a glass to his guest.

Crowley looks good in his kitchen, leant up against the counter, holding the stem of his drink between his fingertips. “I’m not--I don’t,” he starts and then stops with a shake of his head. “No, nevermind.” 

“What is it?” 

“Do you believe in forgiveness?” 

Aziraphale peers down into his wine, swirling it to keep his hands busy. “Isn’t that what we’re told? Jesus died for our sins, and it’s up to us to live life with our best intentions? You’re the priest. What do you think?”

The look on his face is unreadable, his cheeks suddenly more gaunt, the smudges under his eyes deeper, exhausted. Aziraphale knows that look, the fog of starvation for something more than food and drink. “I think that erring from the path of righteousness is what makes us human.” Then he says, “I am human,” more to himself, quietly. 

“The bedroom is this way if you’d care to join me,” Aziraphale says, pointing down the hall. He doesn’t feel courageous. That’s not what this is. He feels liminal, outside of his body, standing in front of this forbidden man. He hasn’t mistaken the situation, the tension in the room. He’s not been so unloved and untouched for so long that he’s forgotten what it looks like to be desired. 

“Are you tempting me?”

They’re sober enough yet he feels anything but clear-headed. “Merely presenting a choice,” Aziraphale says. He’s surprised his voice sounds steady when he speaks. 

Crowley sets down his wine glass. “Lead the way, angel.”

“You can’t call me that if we’re doing this.”

He meets Crowley’s gaze as the man steps forward, toe-to-toe, looking back at Aziraphale with open eyes. His voice is a rough whisper in the scant space between them. “So long as you don’t call me Father.” 

Aziraphale sees the slight tremor in his hands. If he were a better man, he’d end this whole thing before they regretted it. At this moment, however, he doesn’t feel like a good man at all. He feels hot and tight, itching in his skin. He takes his hand and leads him down the hall.

He turns the bedside lamp on, aware of his drab bedroom encroached on all sides by more books, the small full-sized bed that proclaims loudly he hasn’t had a guest or a partner over in forever, hasn’t even hoped to bring someone home. Without pretence, he turns around and pulls his vest over his head, fingers working down his buttons. Crowley’s eyes follow each movement, mouth parted, fingers itching at his sides in want. 

“You can touch.”

Crowley flushes. “Bit out of practice, er, under-practised, really.”

Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow. “I thought priests were experts in buggery.” There’s a long pause, and he has a moment of horror as he watches Crowley’s wide-eyed expression, a sort of choking noise escaping from his throat. He backpedals. “I am so sorry. That was terribly inappropriate--”

He’s cut off by a bright burst of laughter. Crowley leans forward to catch himself on the mattress, wiping at his eyes. “Oh. _Oh_.”

“Jesus,” Aziraphale mutters to himself which sets off another round of convulsions. 

“ _Angel_.” 

“No!” he says, pointing a finger at him. “You can’t call me that.”

“Of course not,” Crowley says, clutching his chest. He waves his hand at him. “You’re a hellion.” 

Aziraphale wipes at his eyes, red in the face, his shirt unbuttoned and untucked. “Come here.” He reaches out, and Crowley takes both of his hands and stands, allowing Aziraphale to bring his palms up to his shoulders. “Go on.”

Crowley goes from riotous laughter to intense concentration in a blink, his fingers flexing against Aziraphale’s bare shoulders. He pushes off one sleeve, then the next before dragging his hands downs from his collar to his belt. His hands rest on the cool metal buckle for a moment, and he inhales a slow and shaky breath before yanking it open. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

Aziraphale lets out a soft sound, just an exhalation, hinting at the cacophony brewing inside him as he watches Crowley lick his lips. They’re chapped and bitten, thin but flush, his tongue peeking out in concentration as he fumbles for his zipper. If Aziraphale kissed him, he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t be able to walk away from this forbidden man; he’d hold on tight until they crumbled to ruins. “Best not,” he says, immediately regretful.

Crowley nods in understanding and bites his lip. His hands move in one continuous touch, a sinuous wave that explores the soft curves of Aziraphale stomach, dipping below his waistband and back up over his chest. They drag up his neck and cup his jaw as though fantasising what it’d be like to pull him close and kiss him anyway. 

Aziraphale reaches into his trousers, groaning as he palms his cock. He brings his forehead to Crowley’s. “We’re not going to make it much further unless you get undressed right now.” 

Spurred into action, Crowley is a flurry of jerky, quick movements, stripping out of his clothes ungracefully. He looks as nervous as Aziraphale feels, stumbling to yank off an errant sock. He straightens up, unfolding like an opening book and just as mysterious and revealing. He’s all pale flesh. Aziraphale is mesmerised by the slight indent of his waist and the trail of reddish-brown hair that dips past the vee of his hips towards his cock, thin but long and pressed tight up against his belly. 

Aziraphale feels self-conscious next to something so magnificent, aware of his soft curves and stretch marks, the way that things don’t look quite the way they did a decade or two ago. He’s settled firmly into middle-age. Then Crowley makes a high and reedy noise before reaching for him, eyes heavy as he studies the whole length of his body and palms himself, heavy with need. He drags his eyes upwards so Aziraphale can look in his eyes, hooded and hazy, succumbing to his baser instincts. 

Aziraphale kneels on the bed and beckons him closer, feeling the mattress dip. He takes Crowley by the waist and scoots him closer, and the man lets out a surprised laugh. “You’re strong,” he says.

“Lifting all those books has to be good for something.” In another show of strength, he holds Crowley by the hips, his thumbs digging into the sharp curve of his iliac crests, tugging him closer until they’re flush, hip-to-hip, the velvety stretch of Crowley’s erection rubbing wetly against his thigh.

Crowley lets out a keen, bucking into him, and Aziraphale, overcome, wraps an arm around his waist and presses his mouth to his throat. They rock together, inelegant and clumsy, with urgency. He can taste the salt of his skin mixed with bitter sweat and the fatigue from a long day which sends sharp bursts of electricity to his cock grinding between them. 

He wants more. He wants to feel the stutter of Crowley’s hips inside him, wants to take him in his mouth, but already he’s too close. He looks up to see Crowley’s head tilted back, mouth open and eyes shut, face screwed tight. Aziraphale grabs the back of his thigh and lifts his knee so they can slot together, and that’s it. Crowley shakes against him, fingers flexing against his shoulders as he comes with a moan. 

It’s all Aziraphale can do to hold on, rutting up once and then once more before everything coils tight and releases in long shivery waves, his cock spilling between them in long pulses. His fingers dig into the muscle of his thigh. There will be bruises tomorrow where no one can see them.

“Ah,” Crowley says, swaying. He steadies himself with one hand and nudges Aziraphale until they’ve lowered onto the bed, both sweaty and panting. “Sorry, that wasn’t very impressive. It’s been a while.” He pants, struggling to slow his breath. Like a cat, he rubs the back of his head against the pillow and lets out a shaky laugh. 

“Trust me, you are very, very impressive,” Aziraphale says, running a hand down his side. “Let me get a towel.” 

He retreats to the bathroom and splashes water on his face. For facing an existential crisis-- _sleeping with a priest!_ \--he feels a surprising weight of calmness. “It’s the orgasm,” he mutters to himself. “Don’t get used to this.” He looks up at his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, the silver sheen peeling from the humidity in the bathroom, and doesn’t recognise the reflection peering back at him. Who is this reckless person who invites men into his home after just two meetings? But then again, that’s always been Aziraphale, going after the unattainable, like sand through his fingers. 

He returns back to the bedroom a little more sombre, though his breath still hitches when Crowley opens a bleary eye at him, his red hair catching in the lamplight. “All right?”

“Yes, my dear.” If it’s not meant to last, Aziraphale will savour as much as he can in the moment. He lies down and runs the warm cloth down Crowley’s abdomen, studying his slowing breaths, luxuriating in the way his stomach tenses and jumps when he finds someplace sensitive. The memory of their frottage will keep him occupied in the evenings for months to come, but this quiet moment after will be the thing that keeps him awake at night, chest aching in the dark.

Aziraphale tucks his hands under his pillow. “Do you want the covers?” Their knees knock together on the small mattress, and he scissors them together so they’re intertwined. “Are you cold?”

“C’mere.” Crowley reaches out a lazy arm. Aziraphale takes it and scoots closer, tucking their hands together between them. “Better.” And then he’s asleep.

  
  


Aziraphale wakes to something shifting off the bed. He hears the birdsong outside by degrees, followed by the ringing toll of the nearby church and blinks his eyes open against the early dawn sun beaming through the open curtain he’d forgotten to close the night before. 

“That’s my cue,” he hears a rough voice say. “I feel a bit like a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight.”

He turns over to find Crowley hopping on one foot while he shimmies into his trousers. His shirt is off, a riveting flush of red staining his chest. “Do you regret it?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley pauses and lets out a short breath before shaking his head. “No, I don’t, though it’d be best if we didn’t do this again.” 

Despite knowing it’s the truth, Aziraphale still stings to hear it. “I hope that I’ll still be able to see you. As a friend, I mean.” 

Crowley pulls his undershirt over his head, his hair a mess. He smiles. “Yeah, I’d like that.” Then he flaps his hands and looks around a bit listless and lost in Aziraphale’s small bedroom. “How do I do this? Say goodbye the morning after?”

“Perhaps a kiss on the cheek and a promise of coffee later?”

He nods and then sits on the edge of the bed and leans down. His breath smells a bit like last night’s wine, and there’s a fine growth of stubble on his cheeks. He lingers, kissing him lightly. If Aziraphale turned his head just a fraction, their lips would touch. 

“Know of any good cafes? I think I’ll need it later.” 

“It’s just your luck that I do.” 

  
  


They go on like this for a while, coffee on Saturday mornings and maybe a nightcap Thursday evenings here and there, never leaving the space of the bookshop to wander upstairs, never daring. Crowley brings his notes with him to the cafe and scribbles over his sermons in preparation for evening mass. They’re equally likely to get into an argument over theology or their differing tastes in music, and sometimes Crowley will read out loud bits of scripture, more to himself than anything while Aziraphale listens to that smooth tenor while dreaming of the other sounds he’s heard come from that mouth.

He fidgets with his ring under the table and tells himself it’s okay, that it’s enough. 

What Aziraphale should do is go to mass. He grew up at St Edmund’s and has been attending irregularly ever since he was a child. He feels a need to go but can’t decide if it’s because a higher authority has called to him or because Crowley will be there.

Then Crowley mentions that Father Francis’ mother has stabilised. “Influenza. Nasty business, but I hear she’s a bit of a spitfire.” He says it like he’s never heard of the flu before--and that Francis would be returning on a part-time basis for Wednesday mass until she fully recovers.

“Then what will you do?” 

“I admit I’d like to grow roots, settle for a while. Might look for a more permanent position somewhere south on the coast.” He shrugs a loose shoulder, twisting his pen. "Plant a garden. I dunno." 

He’s always had difficulty staying in one place, he tells him, and Aziraphale can see it in the way he jostles his leg and fidgets with his pen, the way he keeps chewing on his chapped bottom lip. He could lick there, Aziraphale thinks, bring back the moisture, soothe the skin, dip inside that wet smear of a mouth. 

He needs to go to church. Wednesday mass would be a good opportunity. He hasn’t gone since Crowley started substituting for fear of embarrassing himself in the middle of a sermon. He doesn’t think he could sit and listen to him talk for an hour and a half, sing the liturgy, say the prayers. Aziraphale likes Father Francis, he reminds himself. He’s been his priest for a better part of fifteen years. Some comfort and familiarity might help him find balance.

He shows up late that week, jogging up the steps as he hears the pipe organ play, feeling a bit like a schoolboy about to be scolded for being tardy. It was always a dramatic event as a child, getting ready for church. God forbid they show up late. He stops inside the atrium and adjusts his bowtie, smooths his lapels, and then sneaks into the back. 

Father Francis’ voice is like a soothing balm, steady and calm as he leads them through the Lord’s Prayer. He goes into a traditional sermon about love and kindness and the gift of charity, and Aziraphale nods along. He doesn’t listen to the words, not really. Being there is more of a feeling, a blanket of comfort lit by the stained-glass windows letting the last of the evening light bleed through in bright warm colours. There are fewer people in attendance than on Sundays, and that too is a comfort. It feels more intimate, like he’s just a little bit closer to God. 

At the end of the service, he waits until he’s the last one in line for confession, debating about how truthful he should be. What is Father Francis’ stance on homosexuality? It’s been a taboo subject, skirted around by the congregation. There’s a very Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell stipulation amongst the parishioners. Suddenly, he wishes Crowley were here. Even if he couldn’t speak freely about his feelings for him, he could still be more of himself.

He slides into the small booth and closes the door behind him, taking in the smell of the old wood and dusty paper from the hymnals left behind. He peers through the grate and inhales when he sees a familiar silhouette. His throat clicks when he swallows. “I thought you had Wednesdays off.” 

The figure turns in surprise and leans closer to the barrier, peering at him in direct contradiction to the idea of confidentiality. “Angel?” 

“Ah yes, hello, Crowley. Er--Father Anthony.” He can feel Crowley’s grin. 

“I’m staying after the service so Father Francis can get back to his mother.” Then his voice changes, teasing and light. “And what sort of atonement are you looking for today?” 

“Um.”

The pause between them lasts for several beats, and then Crowley’s tone changes. Aziraphale sees his hand like a shadow pressed against the barrier. “You all right, angel?”

There’s something about the closed space of the confessional, sitting in the dark, that takes away Aziraphale’s inhibitions. He’s spent decades being trained to be honest in this safe space, remembering confessing to little things like stealing a roll of stickers while burning hot with shame, walking away without the burgeoning secret weighing him down. 

That’s what this love is, heavy and leaden. It pools in his shoes and glues him to the confessional bench. It swells in his throat and pushes its way out.

He inhales a sharp breath before exhaling in a rush. “I have untoward feelings.” He hears Crowley shift in his seat and imagines the heat of his body through the divider between them. He hears his voice shake but continues on anyway. “This person cannot return my affection, and I want to move on but can’t. I fear I am disrespecting their wishes.” 

There’s a static-filled silence, charged and thick. “Have they expressed discomfort or hinted that your presence is unwelcomed?”

“No.” 

“And do you trust them to tell you if you go too far?”

“I do.”

“Then you’ve shown that you are a good soul and a friend worth keeping.” He hears Crowley breathe, fidgeting with the ends of his stole. When he speaks again, it’s quiet. “Sometimes, we cannot help what we desire. It’s the intention that matters.” 

“Yes, Father.” 

Crowley makes a choked off sound. “Angel, I--” He breaks off and throws his head back against the wood panelling. Then he curses. 

Aziraphale hears the other side of the confessional door creak open and the sound of his vestments rustling as he slides out. After long seconds, the door to his side opens, and that familiar face peeks inside. He looks over his shoulder at the empty nave before squeezing in so they’re facing, knees knocking against each other. He towers over Aziraphale, shutting the door with a firm tug. “If you must know, I fear my intentions are not pure. I can’t stop thinking about you.” 

The words are a temptation too great, to hear his own thoughts reflected back at him. Aziraphale reaches out for his hands and pulls him close, and Crowley shuffles until he’s kneeling in the space between Aziraphale’s legs, staring up at him. 

“Angel,” he breathes.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Don’t. Not now.” He bites his tongue. _Not when I am so close to sin._

Crowley’s eyes shutter. He makes a sound, low and needy, and it’s obscene in his chasuble and stole. He reaches for Aziraphale’s buckle. There’s a look of regret on his face. “We shouldn’t. I shouldn’t,” he says in a rush. “But, angel, you’re the sweetest dangling apple just waiting to be plucked.” 

“You can’t say things like that and just expect me to stop.” He can feel the heat radiating off those broad palms. “ _God._ ”

“Not that. Say anything else,” Crowley says, jerking roughly at the button of his trousers, the zipper loud in the space between them.

“Fuck.”

“Better.” He works Aziraphale’s cock through the slit of his pants, already half-hard. 

Aziraphale’s legs are trapped by his trousers and the small confines of their box, at Crowley’s mercy. He stifles a groan when he feels the first tentative licks on his glans and shoves the back of his hand in his mouth to keep quiet. 

“I’m not--I’m not good at this. Tell me what you like.”

And Aziraphale stares down at the crown of his hair, mesmerised. There’s nothing, _nothing_ , he would not like if it came from him. “What do you want, Crowley?” 

He looks up at him. No one has blown out the wall sconces yet, and a flicker of candlelight glimmers through the slats of the private confessional, casting a yellow glow over everything. His eyes gleam, two fixed points, the wet tip of Aziraphale’s cock resting on his cheek. The question seems to take him by surprise as if no one has stopped during his long life to ask him _what do you want_? 

It’s a long road to priesthood. He’d explained it once over an espresso, knees jittery, rolling his bitten pen-cap between his palms. Six years of studies, poverty, and piousness, eating cold beans out of tins because there wasn’t enough time to heat them on the hotplate between seminars and readings and charity, it’s not easy being devout. He hasn't found a place to settle, moving from one parish house to another with his meagre belongings, briefly learning the faces and a few names of the congregation before getting an itch to move on. Aziraphale can’t imagine letting go of the small day-to-day comforts he relies on to feel sane, and that’s why, he supposes, Crowley is the one in robes and not him.

But still. _What do you want?_

“I want to make you feel good. Let me?” 

Aziraphale shivers. Crowley is so free with his giving, liberal with his smiles and laughter, his attention. Aziraphale can’t deny him. He cups the back of his head, running his fingers through the fine strands of his red hair, tugging lightly just to watch his head loll to the side. “Go slow,” he tells him. “I want you to savour it.”

Crowley nods and takes him in his mouth and lowers inch-by-inch, breathing through his nose until he can’t anymore. He holds him there, deep against his soft palette, and swallows with a low hum. He backs up in degrees, eyes closed, cheeks hollowed. 

Aziraphale leaves a smear of precome on his lips when he slips out and then rubs his thumb through it and presses it back between his lips. “That’s it. You’re doing so well.” 

A shiver runs through Crowley, and he palms himself through his trousers under his vestments. 

Aziraphale guides him back onto his cock and encourages him quietly in the confined space. “You feel incredible,” he tells him. “You can go faster. You can take more, yes, just like that.” He relishes the broken sound torn from Crowley’s throat and rocks his hips up, eyes rolling back as his head falls back. “Will you come from sucking me off?”

Their breaths are harsh and loud. Aziraphale gives him quick, aborted thrusts, still trapped by his trousers, spit soaking his briefs. “Oh, yes. I’m so close. You can take a little more.” He encourages Crowley to go deeper, feels him swallow and flex around the head of his cock, and then he’s juddering, coming, sharp and bright, a cry fighting to break free from his throat.

Crowley pulls back. His mouth is flush and swollen, obvious as to what he’s been doing. When Aziraphale drags him upwards and reaches under his vestments, he lets out an abrupt laugh, taking Aziraphale’s hand, pressing it against his crotch where it’s damp from his orgasm. He sways toward him, tipping downward like he might capture Aziraphale’s mouth with his own, a thought that sends Aziraphale even higher with desire. 

Then the door slams and they break apart. They hear whistling and the _swish-swish_ of the janitor as he sweeps through the nave towards the altar. Crowley’s face crumples. “Shit.” 

Aziraphale stands, and they knock against each other, noses brushing, waiting until the footsteps fade and a distant door clicks shut. “I’ll go,” he says. Then, because he’s hopeless and weak, he asks, “Saturday, coffee?”

Crowley nods, eyes drifting towards his mouth, lingering with a tight look on his face. “I’ll swing by yours.” 

  
  


He gets a text Friday morning, a _ping!_ that startles him from his book. Crowley’s been on him about his ringer. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to leave it on vibrate?”

“Well, what’s the point of that?”

“So no one else has to suffer hearing it go off all day.”

He’d made a face and said, “But then _I_ can’t hear it,” which earned him an exasperated sigh.

Picking it up, he thumbs at the screen until it unlocks and frowns when he sees the message from Crowley. _something came up. need to talk. can i come over?_

 _Yes_. Then he considers it for a moment before adding, _Are you okay?_

His phone pings a minute later. _debatable_. He moves to the backroom where he fusses with the tap and the electric kettle, grabbing two teacups from the stand. The routine calms his nerves, scooping out two cubes of sugar for Crowley, cream for himself. The kettle beeps just as he hears the front door jingle, and he grabs the tray and brings it to the bookshop proper. 

He stops at the threshold at the sight of Crowley standing in his customary black boots. He has dark wash jeans on and a threadbare henley which seems to accentuate his leanness. He pulls off his sunglasses to reveal dark circles under his eyes.

“Tea?” he offers.

Crowley shakes his head and then sniffs, looking down at his shoes. “I’ll be quick.”

Aziraphale’s heart sinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Keeping several feet apart, Crowley leans against the front counter and folds his arms over his chest, fiddling with the worn cuffs of his shirt. “Father Francis’ mother relapsed last night,” he says. “Passed away early this morning. I’m going to be staying on for the next three months while Francis takes a sabbatical to get things in order.”

“I see,” Aziraphale says. He should be overjoyed that Crowley will be staying a little longer, but the distance between them feels like a canyon, a cleaving slice of separation. “Are you all right?”

Crowley lets out a small huff and then a laugh. “I told you before. I’m a shit priest. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t want this.” He pauses for a beat. “Can I… confess something to you?”

And at that moment, Aziraphale knows it’s over. Nobody goes to confession without feeling guilty. He sees it in the resoluteness of Crowley’s face, the grief. He wants to protest, to cover his ears, but Crowley deserves someone who will listen with the same intensity and care that he gives others, that he gave Aziraphale. “What is it?”

“I, um, this is the first place I’ve really wanted to stay, but I worry it’s not for the right reasons.” He won’t look up. He licks his dry lips and rubs his hands together like he’s cold. Aziraphale aches to wrap him up. “I have lived my life happily in the service of the Lord for almost 25 years, and I have never doubted, have never questioned anything until now.” When he does look up, his eyes are sad, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips. 

Aziraphale clenches his fingers around the tea tray, afraid if he moves the whole thing will topple, that he will crumble too. 

“It’s your laughter and the way you eat your pastries in the morning, the way you move through rooms and enjoy every sensation and smell and taste. You made me realise I've been living life half-blind; you touched me, and I suddenly could see in colour.” 

Aziraphale’s breath goes shallow, mouth open, an ache in his chest and a choking sensation in his throat. No one has ever said such things about him. No one has ever made him feel so beautiful and so wrecked all at once.

“I was gone the moment I woke up in your bed,” Crowley says. “You’d left the curtains open, and the sun poured in, and I just stared at you for far too long. Thank goodness you were asleep,” he says with a laugh that spills out of him, jagged and sharp. “I hadn’t felt the warmth from the sun until that moment. I’d been preaching for decades about loving all of God’s beauty, but I didn’t really know what that meant until I was in the presence of an angel.”

“Crowley.” 

“If this is a test from the Lord then I’m failing.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. He sets down the tray and takes a step forward but stops when he sees the longing writ on Crowley’s face. They stand in silence until he finds the right words. They are not the words he wants to say and hates that the right thing adds to the cleaving pain in his chest. “You’re not a shit priest. I know you’re going to do the right thing.” Then he repeats himself with more conviction despite not being able to look at the forbidden man in front of him. “You’re going to do the right thing.”

“And what’s that?” Crowley asks.

His voice cracks. “You’re going to let me go.”

Crowley nods and wipes his hand over his face. His fingers come back wet. “It’s probably best if you find another parish, just for now until I leave.” Then he adds, “I’m sorry.” 

“No,” Aziraphale says, shaking his head. He feels calm all at once, a numbing weight settling over him like all the emotion has drained from his body onto the floor. “I should be the one who’s sorry. But I’m not. You’re the best thing to happen to me.” 

Crowley pushes off the counter and turns on his heel just as Aziraphale catches a glimpse of his face, twisted and wrecked. He doesn’t look back, shoulders hunched as he shoves open the front door. He leaves in a flurry, and Aziraphale watches him go, the way he wraps his arms around himself to fend off the cold, like he’d walked here straight from the church, determined, afraid if he waited he’d change his mind. 

Then he stops in the middle of the sidewalk. The bookshop windows are grimy, and Aziraphale knows that he can’t see him watching. Crowley drops his hands to his side and looks up at the sky, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. He nods to himself once and straightens his shoulders. Then he turns around.

Aziraphale, frozen, watches him round the corner again, and then the front door swings open, the bell chimes, and Crowley strides over to him in four quick steps. He takes Aziraphale’s face in his hands, gentle and soft, warm despite the chill outside, and brings their mouths together. 

It’s clumsy, their lips pressed together in a closed kiss. Aziraphale brings his hands up on instinct to steady them both. All the raw emotion he’d been fending off comes roaring back, a tsunami of want and grief and something else that’s nameless, that he refuses to define. He knows the shape of it, round and beating like a heart, but he won’t say the words. He can’t tell Crowley, _I love you_. Not like this. He shifts until their mouths slot together better, and he hears a soft noise, a moan that rends his heart. Crowley slides his hands to cup the back of Aziraphale’s head, sturdy and strong, and they stay like that for long, inseparable seconds breathing each other in. 

When Crowley pulls back, his eyes are wet. He sniffs once and then blinks, face shifting from open-eyed want to something more resolute. He drops his hands. 

Then Aziraphale watches him turn and leave, this time for good.

  
  


Aziraphale steps out of his shop and straightens his tie, trying to stand a little taller. He thumbs the manilla envelope in his hand before tucking it under his arm. The moment he steps off the stoop, it feels like walking down death row.

It’s warm out, sunny and bright. There’s a bitter part of him that wants to scream. How dare London look so beautiful this summer day? Then he takes a breath and looks around at the life surrounding him, nods to himself and begins the long journey around the corner towards _Angel's Paradise._

The door chimes and Gabriel looks up from the counter. "Zira!" he exclaims.

"It's Aziraphale,” he reminds him. 

Gabriel smiles and waves a dismissive hand at him. “I see you have something for me?”

He fumbles for the thick envelope and hands it to him, fingers reluctant to let go. “Right, yes. All signed and ready to go. I guess this makes it official.”

Gabriel snatches it from his hands and opens it, shaking out the contract with Aziraphale’s signature agreeing to sell his property. “Ah,” the man says, savouring it. Then he looks up and catches the pinched expression on Aziraphale’s face. “You’re doing the right thing,” he tells him.

“Yes, well.” He has nothing more to add. Financially, his bookshop has been a burden, sinking his savings further and further, but it also was his life. In a month, it’ll be somebody else’s shop front, a place unrecognisable to the warmth and love he poured into it.

“You’re sure about selling the rooms upstairs as well?” 

Aziraphale nods. He can’t imagine living above _Gabriel’s_ bookshop. 

Gabriel slides the documents back into the envelope and sets them on the counter. Then he looks at Aziraphale. “Look, I know this has been a difficult decision for you, but I hope you like what I do with it. I’m opening it up as a sex-positive community centre, a safe space for events and readings and seminars for everyone, even the LGBT community.” He pauses and looks at him. “You should come once it’s open.”

It’s a nice idea. Gabriel _is_ kind, Aziraphale thinks. He’s built him up to be a monster in his head, the creature preying on all that he loves, but Soho would benefit from a space like what he describes. He imagines it filled with young teens and middle-aged mentors, and it’d be brilliant if it wasn’t _his_ first. “It sounds lovely, but I’m afraid I’ll be moving out of London.”

“That’s a change for you, isn’t it? I thought you’ve lived in Soho your entire life,” Gabriel says, surprised.

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, but I think a change will be good for me. You’ve been more than generous with your offer, and I’m going to use it to buy a cottage south of Chichester. I’ve already found a place. It’ll be a bit of a fixer-upper but something to occupy my time.” 

Gabriel makes a face and pastes on a smile. “Sounds nice,” he says with the tone of a person who could never imagine leaving the city. Aziraphale hadn’t imagined it either, not until three months ago. Not since Crowley walked out of the bookshop with his heart.

“Right, well.” He turns on his heel and leaves.

He goes for a long walk to clear his head, stopping at the little ice cream stand in the park before meandering back home. He opens the front door and steps on a stack of mail, the post having been by, and he scoops it up to throw away later before locking the door behind him. 

Then something catches his eye, a folded bundle taped together and printed on copy paper, the same sheaf he’d been getting for the last thirty-plus years. He hasn’t opened a single _St. Edmund’s Newsletter_ for the last several months. It’s the same old same old, anyway: event updates, obituaries, reminders that they’re always accepting donations and that charity is a virtue. Still, he’s drawn to it and can’t help but sit down and examine it with clumsy fingers.

He turns it over in his hands before sliding a clean and manicured nail under the tape, breaking the seal. It’s Crowley--no, Father Anthony’s--final month before moving on to who knows where for another interim stint. In big, bold letters, the front headline reads **_Welcome back, Father Francis!_** with a small little blurb about his return date and his gratitude towards the parish for their well-wishes, kind thoughts, and prayers over the passing of his mother.

Beneath it is a small headshot of a familiar face, just a tiny grainy smear of print that somehow still makes Aziraphale’s breath catch. **_Thank you, Father Anthony!_** He traces the name with his thumb and steadies himself before reading the small blurb underneath.

> Father Anthony J Crowley extends his thanks to the patronage of St. Edmund’s for their kindness while he has served here for the past four months. He will cherish the opportunity and memories made during his time here (especially the Easter Bruncheon!) He would also like to announce that following his last day with St. Edmund’s, he plans to--

The doorbell rings, startling Aziraphale. He drops the sheaf of paper with a muttered curse. He hears the door handle jiggle. “We’re closed!” he shouts, reaching down to collect the scattered newsletter. 

He waits for a beat before the rattling at the door stops, then resumes his reading.

> ...following his last day with St. Edmund’s, he plans to enjoy an early retirement.

Aziraphale stops breathing. He rereads the last line, the text a blur as his fingers go cold. Yes, he read that right. Crowley is _retiring_. Blinking to clear his vision, he continues.

> Father Anthony has been practising for the last 25 years across the greater United Kingdom and is blessed to have travelled from Scotland, Wales, to London and back. He plans to continue his service to the Lord through charity and non-profit work.

The doorbell rings again, this time a long and obnoxious press to the buzzer. “Bugger! Just wait a moment!” he shouts, standing too quickly. He catches himself on his desk, lightheaded and dizzy, the newsletter spilling at his feet. Then he stalks over to the door in quick, furious strides. What he needs right now is to be alone, not to be dealing with a solicitor. 

_Bzz! Bzz!_

He yanks open the door and sticks his head out. “What?” he snaps. Then he freezes, mouth and eyes open, his throat dry and tight. 

He’s a sight for sore eyes, his forbidden man standing on the steps, dressed in black jeans worn at the knee and a threadbare t-shirt. Aziraphale had only seen so much skin once before in his bedroom, a few months and a lifetime before, one night long ago. His hair has grown a few inches. His laugh lines are just as deep and charming.

Crowley gives him a careful smile, hands shoved in his pockets. “Hi, angel,” he says. He pushes his sunglasses up, revealing the warmth of his eyes and his summer freckles. He’s somehow just as Aziraphale remembers him but even more, the colours around him brighter, the blacks deeper and richer. He smiles, something fragile and tentative. “Can I come in?”

Aziraphale jerks open the door all the way, eyes wide and heart hammering. “Yes,” he says like a promise. “Yes.” He beckons him inside.

**Author's Note:**

> And then they move into the cottage and live happily ever after!
> 
> Notes and References  
> 1\. This was written for the lovely [@ladybugcaptor](https://ladybugcaptor.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for the GO VDay Exchange 2021 [@goloveday](https://goloveday.tumblr.com/). Thank you both to the organizers of the event and to @ladybugcaptor who I hope to call a friend for a long time to come! Do you ever get an idea that eats at you, and you can’t stop writing until it’s finished? That’s what this is. @ladybugcaptor said, “Priest AU,” and I blew past the time and word limits like a person possessed.
> 
> Also, huge, HUGE thank you to [Katieof0z](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katieof0z) on ao3 for the beta!
> 
> 2\. Father Anthony can come exorcise me. Do I have a thing for priests? No. Do I have a thing for Father Anthony? You bet I do. 
> 
> 3\. Yes, the title comes from Sinead O’Connor. It was a funny working title I wrote in jest, but then the more I thought about it, the more I thought the song and story really fit together. If you aren’t familiar with her, Sinead O’Connor is a singer-songwriter who was famous in the ’80s and early ‘90s. She performed on SNL where she protested sexual abuse in the Catholic Church by lighting a picture of Pope John Paul II on fire after singing a cover of Bob Marley’s “War.” It ended her career, and it took almost another decade for the Pope to acknowledge the sexual abuse running rampant through the Catholic Church. Do I feel a little bad that I am writing Priest!AU to her music? Yeah, actually, a little bit. 
> 
> 4\. Otherwise, my experience with the Catholic church is, uh, _Fleabag_ and _Father Ted_. Be glad this didn’t end up being Father Ted. Feck!
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can follow me [@nieded](https://nieded.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. <3


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